The Last Autumn
by ms metaphor
Summary: “The thing he'll remember most vividly is the leaves.” SiriusLily. Part One of “The Heart’s Progress,” a series of vignettes based the poetry of Pablo Neruda.


_**The Last Autumn**_

by ms. metaphor

****

**Rating:** G

**Pairing:** Sirius/Lily

**Genre:** Romance/Angst

**Summary:** "The thing he'll remember most vividly is the leaves."Part One of **_The Heart's Progress,_** a series of vignettes based on the poetry of Pablo Neruda

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sirius or Lily. They belong to J. K. Rowling, along with everything else from So no, I'm not making any money here. Title and excerpts taken from _I Remember You as You Were_, by Pablo Neruda.

* * *

_I remember you as you were in the last autumn.  
You were the grey beret and the still heart.  
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.  
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.

* * *

_

The thing he'll remember most vividly is the leaves.

It is autumn, mid October, and they're everywhere. He kicks them as he goes, scattering brown and yellow and orange and even a few vibrant red ones. They scrape and swirl about his feet, tumbling down the sidewalk and street.

Prongs promised Lily he would rake, but Sirius knows that, naturally, James won't bother till every last leaf has fallen. Which actually makes sense, because Godric's Hollow is thick with lean, old poplars and lithe elms that cling to their leaves long past the peak of fall. Sirius thinks these trees are stubborn—or maybe just sad.

Late afternoon. He's kicking another pile of leaves as he lingers by her backdoor—the door she has shared with James for this past year. He specifically thinks, she probably ate already today. Probably ate a salad or a cucumber sandwich; they are healthy and require little work, and she likes them. Too bad. He likes their lunches together. He even likes her sandwiches.

He thinks: soon, she'll no longer greet him at this door with a plateful of sandwiches. Because, come May, James will carry her, in her gauzy, white dress and pearls, over the threshold of this door. Then, there will be no more spontaneous lunches. There will be no more sandwiches for Sirius.

Soon, James will do his promised raking, and the doorstep will not be littered with leaves.

Sirius slips inside without knocking. Starts the teakettle with a wave of his wand and gets out her favorite: white tea and a jar of honey. He prefers Earl Grey, and he doesn't like honey. It makes him gag. He sits on her counter, hands clutching the edge, and waits. The kettle whistles. He pours two cups, making hers just as she likes it. And he knows exactly how she'll smile when he hands it to her, hot and sweet.

He would make her tea everyday just to see that smile. But he can't. They both know it, and it's as simple as that.

That's what he tells himself.

She flounces in the door at half past three. He grins, watching her flit around, put away her purse, hang up her cloak, rearrange her hair as she hums something unrecognizable.

He told her once that she flounces. She punched him in the shoulder and stuck out her tongue. "Sirius Black, I do not flounce. And, for your information, you _strut_." She said it like a swear word.

"Of course I strut. And you like it." She hit him again, but she didn't deny it.

He slides off the counter and tiptoes behind her. He grabs her by the shoulders, covers her eyes, and secretly inhales the scent of her hair. Peppermint. Almost makes him dizzy, but in the best way possible.

"Oh, Sirius, stop it. I know it's you!"

He laughs and hands her the cup. There it is: that smile. Like the sunrise. Better than sex—almost. If she knew he thought that, she'd hit him. And she'd make it hurt on purpose, though not too much. He wouldn't have it any other way.

"Hey, love. Are you free for a chat?" That's what he always called her: love. Sometimes she calls him darling, drawling it to be funny.

Except—she doesn't say yes, darling. They sit at the table, and she only circles the rim of the cup with her index finger, biting her lip.

Then, a very long moment. He wants to scream.

Instead, he says, "Lily—"

"I don't know what to say," she whispers.

"You don't have to say anything."

She closes her eyes, looks away. He stifles the impulse to ramble—to steep the tension in cute anecdotes and wit, to make her feel better, to make this easier, to fill the quiet with something other than pain.

Eventually, she tries again. "You don't deserve this."

He shrugs. "So?" He figures that point is, well, pointless. Whether he deserves it—losing her—or not, she was never his to lose. He realizes he has no right to have this conversation, nor even to make her tea for the sole purpose of her pleasure. He is keenly aware he has no right to her pleasure. James, that blind idiot he adores so much, won that right long ago. Or perhaps Sirius gave it to him, freely.

"So? So why is it James and not you? Do you know? Because I don't. I don't and I wish I did. And I keep—I keep… I keep asking myself and I just. don't. know."

Now he's the one staring at his tea, mostly because it's easier than staring at her or the new gleaming diamond on her left hand, ring finger. He loves James. He does. He loves him more than anyone. Maybe even her. Maybe. But that doesn't make it fair. He really hates it when things aren't fair.

"I wouldn't change a thing, love."

She looks at him, arches an eyebrow.

"Okay, okay. Maybe some things. I'd like to be the one that gets the girl."

Her eyes look suspiciously wet. "I'm sorry."

But the last thing he wants is her apology. She should know that he chose this. He's not a victim, and though it hurts, he's proud he is complicit.

"Don't be sorry."

"I know. But I am. You—you mean the world to me. You know that? You know what you are to me? You're fast motorbike rides and dangerous flying lessons and deep conversations at two am and silly love sonnets under my pillow and doing stupid, drunken things together and—and kisses in the rain… But you're not the boy a girl brings home to her parents. Or the one she marries and has babies with and grows old with."

They lock eyes. He doesn't dare look away. "And James is," he finishes.

She can't speak. She presses her hand to her lips.

Finally, "I had to choose. One day I had to choose. It just got harder every day I waited. So I just… made my choice."

He understands completely. He can't help who he is or how he feels, and neither can James. He really hates it when things aren't fair, he thinks again. It was always James, because James was strong and stable and _good_. He's not sure he's any of those things, though he wants to be. Most of all, he's angry for Lily, because it is most unfair to her. She had to choose, and there was no easy choice.

"More tea?" He motions toward the pot.

She shakes her head, offering him a weak smile.

He knows that's his cue to leave, so he gets his cloak and puts his cup away. Bending down, he kisses her lightly on the cheek. She leans in. He warms all over, despite the steady ache he knows will never go away.

"Sirius – "

He pauses in the doorway. Turns partly. Her red hair is just like the leaves, a reminder of all he is losing, and her emerald eyes say so much more than he can bear to hear.

"Sirius, I want you to know, even when I have James and—and marriage and babies and growing old to do, that doesn't mean… I'll still need those other things too… motorbikes rides and drunken silliness and flying tricks and late night talks and those stupid sonnets…"

_And kisses in the rain._

Wordlessly, he nods. But now she's really crying, so he gathers himself. "Then you'll have it, love. Whatever you need."

Her eyes shine with unspoken things.

Rather than bawl like a newborn, he runs—right into a cutting wind. The screen door bangs behind him. He doesn't think, doesn't stop to consider the leaves till he's a half a mile away.

At last, when her little home is out of sight, Sirius staggers to a halt. He shudders, gazing at the taut, empty sky, and almost wishes it were winter. But no, it's only mid October. There's still a while to go till winter's soul-deep cold sets in.

At least one neighbor bothered to rake, he thinks while he rounds a neat pile of leaves. He stoops by the pile and chooses one. Maple. Small, fresh, and still soft. It feels like a crystallized petal in his palm. He twirls it. Dazzling red.

He tucks it away in his cloak and heads for home.

Some things are worth remembering.

* * *

_Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:  
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!  
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.  
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.

* * *

_**Finis**


End file.
